


Twenty-Four

by cherryblossomphil



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Birthday, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4118137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossomphil/pseuds/cherryblossomphil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you.” - Winnie the Pooh; Phil takes some time to reflect on Dan’s birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Four

One is the amount of sugar you put in your tea. One scoop, two splashes of milk, and a biscuit from the Christmas tin your mum sends us every year that takes months to finish. I don’t know how you can take your tea so bitter, but at least it balances out the four scoops I put in mine. (You always say I’m gonna rot my teeth out, but it’s worth it to be the sweetness in your life.) (Stop rolling your eyes - that was a top-notch pun and you know it.)

Two is the number of dimples that pop up every time you smile. I know you get self-conscious about them; I see the way your eyes duck down after you laugh too hard, a spot of red flush appearing on your cheeks. If only you knew how my heart swells every time you smile, how I forget to breathe at the sight of those two little indents. There’s this game I like to play, you see – how many times a day can I make those dimples appear. I’m quite good at it; my personal best is twenty-seven, from our second day in Japan. My worst was the day you decided to drop out of uni – that day, you only smiled twice. But I’ve always gotten at least one, and words cannot describe how proud and honored I am to be the source of your smile. I hope that never changes.

Three is the number of years we’ve lived in London. Three years of cupboards left open and straighteners left on. Three years of mysteriously cracked kitchen tiles and “mysteriously” broken bed frames. Three years of curling up on the couch to watch movies every rainy night and cursing the goddamn mailman from our bed every early morning. Moving to London was one of the scariest decisions I’ve ever made in my life, but I can’t think of a better person to have made the leap with. And no matter where life takes us next – another three years in the city, or back up to Manchester, or even across the ocean – I know that as long as I’m with you, I’m home. You’ve always been home.

Four is the number of subscribers you have (in millions, of course). I remember the day you got your first one – you woke me up, phone in hand and eyes wide in excitement. We had celebratory pancakes followed by celebratory sex and afterwards, when we were lying in bed all sweaty and tired, you thanked me for everything I had done to get you that far. And I laughed - I laughed and laughed and called you stupid and kissed you senseless because none of that was me. It was your dedication and your creativity and your passion that got you that first million – and the million after that, and the million after  _that_ , and the million after that. I can’t wait to see what new milestones you’ll reach this year; you’ve accomplished so much, and you’ll accomplish so much more.

Five is the number of syllables in your name. Dan-iel James How-ell. Sometimes it’s Daniel, on those nights when you get so caught up in your thoughts that you need something to call you back to reality. Sometimes it’s Mr. Howell, during those times we pretend to have actual jobs that require formalities. But most of the time it’s just “Dan”, called across the flat whenever I can’t find my laptop charger or whispered against your skin during my futile attempts to wake you up before eight. It’s the first word I mumble in the morning, voice raspy from sleep, and the last word I yawn at night, too tired to even listen to your response. It’s on every laugh, every grumble, every moan, every breath I take, always resting on the tip of my tongue like toffee that’s almost too sweet to swallow. I’ve huffed it in annoyance, screamed it in surprise, whined it in pleasure, murmured it in fondness, and – most importantly – spoken it with love. You’ve said it’s a common name, nothing to fuss over, but I disagree. It’s the most beautiful name in the world. I’ll never get tired of saying it.

Six is the number of years we’ve been together. It’s amazing how quickly time passes when you’ve got a person to share it with, and I thank my lucky stars every night that I’ve found my person. You asked me once if I would still love you when you got old and gray. I laughed and asked if you meant older and grayer than you are now. You punched me in the shoulder and called me a git, so I pulled you close and pressed kisses up your neck until you forgave me. It was a silly question, anyway – I could spend an entire lifetime with you and never stop loving you. That’s what I’ve always planned on doing.

Seven is the number of syllables that  _will_  be in your name, once we decide it’s the right time. (I’m still a fan of Howell-Lester, but I’m willing to discuss it, provided you give me a  _very_  good incentive.)

Eight is the number of times I’ve seen you cry.  _Properly_  cry, not those sniffles you get whenever you watch sad movies or chop onions. There was that time during your classes, when the pressures of exams got the best of you and you called me over skype, tears streaming down your face. There’s the time right before you dropped out of uni, when you collapsed in my arms and screamed yourself hoarse into my shirt. And there are all the times during 2012, when each sob I heard from behind your locked door felt like a punch in the gut. So help me God, I promise to never be the reason that you cry ever again. And when you do cry, I promise to dry your tears and sing silly songs and waffle on about whatever comes to mind until the pain goes away. Because I will always be there for you, no matter what happens.

Nine is the number of minutes it takes you to straighten your hair. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t – it’s absolutely adorable seeing your curly head peek up at me from under the blankets – but then you smirk at me from underneath those bangs and,  _wow_ , okay, yeah, keep straightening it. It’s ridiculous how attractive you are. I’m such a lucky guy.

Ten is the number of fingers you have. Everybody has those, I know, but yours are special. They tangle with mine every morning, finding my hands without fail. They card through my hair every time you pass by, tugging on the strands before darting away. They help cook the best chicken stir-fry (though their spaghetti could use a little work), and reluctantly help put the dishes away after. Come evening, they play the piano with enviable skill and agility, darting across the ivories like dancers. I especially like it when they grasp at my shoulders in pleasure, or trail across my chest in content. They’re long and warm and inviting, and I’d play with them all day if I could, pressing kisses to each knuckle and tracing the lines on your palms. A ring would fit nicely on your left hand. Just let me know when you’re ready.

Eleven is the number of skype chats we had before I managed to convince you to upload your first video. You were so nervous; I could feel your anxiousness through the computer screen. I’m not interesting, you said. No one will watch them, it’ll just be embarrassing, you said. But I knew you were wrong. From the moment we first spoke, I knew you had something special – a gift for connecting with people, for reaching out and telling stories and inspiring others. You sure inspired me. And I wanted the whole world to know how special you were, even if you couldn’t see it yourself. You’ve always been my biggest fan, and I’m honored to say that I’m yours as well – always have been, always will be.

Twelve is the number of freckles on your body. I’ve counted each one; two on your cheek, a few more on your chest, and the rest scattered across your back like constellations. Sometimes I think I know your body better than I know my own, because I find new freckles every day but I know every mark and crevice and perfect imperfection on your body like it’s been ingrained in my brain since birth. I know exactly where to touch and kiss and caress so that you understand how much I adore you, and how to hold you so that you know you’re not alone. You don’t believe me when I tell you you’re beautiful, and that’s okay; that just means I have to keep telling you.

Thirteen – 2013, to be specific – was the year we got the radio show. The call came around noon; I was making lunch, you were editing a video.  We must’ve been a sight, two grown men jumping up and down in their pajamas and screaming at the top of their lungs, but we didn’t care. You’d kissed me long and hard, pulling away to wipe your hand across your eyes and when I asked if you were crying, you laughed and said you were just happy. Two years and dozens of shows later, I hope that you’re still happy, still just as excited as you were that day in July. I know I am, and it’s because I get to experience it with you. You bring such joy to my life – never forget that.

Fourteen is the number of times you had me tell you “I love you” that first day I said it. The first time was an accident, slipping past my lips without warning when you’d told me that you’d bring me breakfast in bed. Your eyes had widened, stopping in your tracks to look at me in disbelief. I was so worried that I’d rushed things too fast, but then you told me to say it again. And again, and again, and again. And with each time, I grew more sure about the fact that I really was truly, deeply,  _madly_  in love with you. You, with your monochrome clothing and adorable southern accent that makes me laugh. You, with your idiosyncrasies and peculiarities that never cease to amaze me. You, with your existential crises and constant pacing that keep you awake at night and worry me to death. I was in love with every part of you, and I still am. Fourteen times I told you I loved you on that first day, and now I’ve said it too many times to count. I hope you’ll never stop wanting to hear it.

Fifteen is the timestamp of the creation of our ship name. I don’t know whose idea it was to add that annotation, but fifteen seconds into your Jamaica video marks the first time “phan” was ever mentioned on the internet and the rest is history. (I say I don’t know, but I honestly think it was you – those emojis have your 2010-self written all over it.) People don’t usually start their own ship themselves – that’s up for the fans to decide. But I guess we were never ones to play by the rules.

Sixteen is the table we sat at in the Sky Bar. I should know; I still have the receipt. The food was overpriced, and I might have been more scared of heights than I let on, but that’s okay because being with you,  _actually_  being with you, was more than worth it. That will forever be one of the best nights of my life. Thanks for making it absolutely perfect.

Seventeen is the number of dogs we’re going to own one day. That’s what I promised you one summer night, over two bottles of wine and leftover takeaway. You told me you wanted a nice two-story you can decorate to match your aesthetic, with enough space for that family my mother keeps bothering us about. There would be a massive garden out front to appease my “bloody plant obsession” and a room you’d be able to play the piano in without bothering the neighbors. By the time the sun rose, we’d agreed on a state-of-the-art home theater for us to play video games in and a giant slide in lieu of a staircase (though I’m pretty sure that was the alcohol talking by that point). And we had a final toast over seventeen dogs, one of which would be called Winston. We woke up later that afternoon with pounding headaches and godawful hangovers, but I didn’t forget a word of what we said. I have it written down somewhere, don’t worry. No backing out, now.

Eighteen is the number of chapters in our book. Eighteen, well-written, meticulously poured over chapters that we’ve lost more hours of sleep over than we have for all of our other projects combined. It was difficult and exhausting and stressful, but it’s us – 100% us. It’s our story, our lives together forever immortalized on paper.  I don’t need a book to remind me of every amazing moment I’ve shared with you, though. You were, are, and always will be my greatest adventure. I will never forget a second of the life we’ve built. 

Nineteen is the day we met. Manchester station was crowded, more so than usual, and I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to find you, or worse – that you wouldn’t come. But then our eyes locked across the sea of people, and it was like time stood still. You were there – actually,  _properly_  there, no more than twenty meters away instead of the usually twenty-thousand. And I  _ran_ , I ran and ran to meet you because even that amount of distance was too far now that there wasn’t a computer screen keeping us apart. I ran until I could hug you with so much force that it knocked the wind right out me, and you were laughing into my neck and complaining that people were starting to stare, but I didn’t listen because I finally had you in my arms and I wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon. I’m still not letting go.

Twenty is the day we first filmed a video together. We got higher off the sharpie fumes than either of us expected to and ended up having to edit out at least two make-out sessions and one incredible blowjob, but it will always be one of the best videos I’ve ever made. I watch it back sometimes, laughing at the stupid little jokes we made and the absurdity of our hair. We’ve come such a long way since then, in more ways that I can count. Thanks for always standing by me, cat whiskers and all.

Twenty-one is the total number of times we’ve had to edit out sex from our videos. We really need to work on that.

Twenty-two was how old I was when you came into my life. I was a mess, teetering on the brink of adulthood with no plans for the future. I felt helpless, desperately lost and confused and in need of someone,  _anyone_  to give me a reason, a purpose to live. And then you came along, with your incessant tweets and your perpetual smirk and your flawless music taste, and I took a chance. That’s all it was, really; pure chance, a leap of faith that changed my life forever. I took a chance on you, and now every day feels like heaven on earth because with you beside me, I can conquer anything. You’ve helped make me who I am today. Words cannot express what a blessing you are to me.

Twenty-three was how old you wanted to be forever. You said that in a live show once; you were no more than a kid back then, still uncertain of your place on the internet, of your place in the world. Look at you now – taking over the internet by storm and making a difference in the lives of so many. I am constantly in awe of everything you do, and so are the millions of people who care about you. Twenty-three was a great year for you, but I know you’ll just keep getting better and better. You’re gonna change the world one day. I guarantee it.

And twenty-four is the number of years you’ve been on this Earth. Twenty-four years of joy and happiness, of struggles and hardships, of triumphs and success. Twenty-four years of unconditional love and selflessness, of biting sarcasm and razor-sharp wit. And while I’ve only had the privilege to be a part of the last six years, I promise you I’ll be there for the rest of them, if you’ll let me. I hope you’ll let me. Because you are my best friend, my soulmate, my everything. And I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for you.

I love you, Bear. Happy Birthday.


End file.
